Sarah Standing pays moving tribute to her dad, the film director and
writer Bryan Forbes, who died this week

I’m 53, and this is the first time in my life that I’ve written something my father won’t read. I’m sitting at his desk in his study, in the house where I grew up, and that thought is not only unimaginable, it’s almost unbearable.

He was my biggest champion. My touchstone. My moral compass. He was a man who always did the right thing, and whenever he was asked to write a tribute for a friend or colleague, he found the perfect words regardless of how sad or weary he felt. So, I’m hoping, as his daughter, that I can do the same for him.

As a child, I suffered from insomnia. I used to creep into this welcoming room long after I’d been put to bed and find Daddy at his typewriter. He was a night bird, too, and never minded me interrupting him. “Can’t sleep, Flopsy?” he’d ask. “Then stay here for a bit with me.” I’d lean over his shoulder to look at what he was writing; he’d make me rub his neck, invariably tense with what we both called “writer’s hunch”.

I loved being in this room, which smelt of smoke and whisky and was cluttered with books. I loved our bonding, nocturnal rendezvous. I would curl up on the sofa with a book, and we’d just be together in happy silence. He gave me a love of reading and a love of writing, but most of all he gave me truly unconditional love.

Whenever I’m asked about my childhood, I always say it was normal, happy and grounded. Strangers used to question how that could be true, growing up with two parents – my mother is the actress, Nanette Newman – who were at the epicentre of the British film industry during the late Fifties, the Sixties and early Seventies, its most vibrant period. Understandably, people could only see the obvious advantages, the film sets and foreign locations, the famous friends like Richard Attenborough, Roger Moore, Elton John, and Katharine Hepburn.

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My parents were a gloriously glamorous couple, and the films my father wrote and directed during this time (Whistle Down The Wind, The L Shaped Room, Séance on A Wet Afternoon, The League of Gentlemen, King Rat) were uncompromising, cutting-edge and reflected some of his most creative and best work.

But I always tell people it was not my parent’s success that defined my childhood; it was something more basic and precious. It was the fact that my younger sister Emma [Forbes, the TV presenter] and I were the products of an exceptionally happy marriage. Our parents were like swans; they mated for life. They adored one another, even after nearly six decades together. They cherished their good fortune, and subliminally laid down a blueprint that both Emma and I have somehow managed to replicate.

When I was in my teens, my father said: “Darling, try not to sleep with anyone you don’t feel a modicum of affection for, and promise me you will never end up with a man who doesn’t make you laugh.”

When I messed up, he was always there to catch me. I’d often receive a long, handwritten letter that would help rebuild my broken heart and shattered ego. He’d force me to find a grain of humour in even the saddest circumstances. He made me laugh.

But the trait I most hope I’ve inherited is his enthusiasm. He had a wonderful zest for life and generosity of spirit. One of the things that has struck me during the bleak few days since his death is just how encouraging he was to those starting out on their careers.

The volume of messages that I’ve received from complete strangers whose lives he made just a tiny bit better has stunned me. If he admired a writer, or saw a film he liked, or read an article that resonated, he never hesitated to write a fan letter. He always rooted for the underdog and championed new talent.

He loved being president of the National Youth Theatre. He adored owning and running the local bookshop in Virginia Water for more than 30 years. He was passionate about his garden and photography. He relished a sneaky game of roulette when visiting London. He railed against political correctness and was always at his very happiest just hanging out at home.

During his last years, he hated the ignominy and inconvenience of being ill – he suffered from emphysema and a heart condition. He loathed feeling lethargic and wiped out, and resented being held back by his own, increasingly frail, body. Going to King Edward VII’s Hospital every few weeks for blood transfusions was a test of endurance. Although he adored the staff who looked after him, he could never wait to return home. My mother never left his side, always infusing him with optimism and bravely pretending things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Towards the end, I’d leave the house, stop the car at the end of the road, take in huge gasps of air and cry my eyes out. I hated seeing the man I loved so much diminish before me. I tried hard to hold in my mind a picture of him when he was strong and energetic. It was a long goodbye.

When the end came this week, he was surrounded by the three of us. The windows were all open, the room was filled with forget-me-nots and we were playing his favourite opera, La Bohème. Earlier that afternoon I’d sat beside the bed reading aloud Tender Is The Night. He died peacefully in our arms.

Later in his life, he always greeted me as “little Sarah” but I don’t think I’ve ever felt smaller than I did when we finally let him go. He was a giant of a husband and father.

One of his favourite quotes was from Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac. “You may take my happiness to make you happier, even though you never know I gave it to you – Only let me hear sometimes all alone, The distant laughter of your joy.”

We all knew the joy you gave us, and you will hear the laughter again. I promise.